brainwave puzzle
by mousers mary
Summary: AU. After awaking to find himself institutionalized, Dan has trouble separating reality from fantasy. captcha fic originally written for the KM.
1. Chapter 1

Have you ever woken up somewhere without knowing just how you got there?

I am not in my own bed. I feel odd, though. You, know? Like my body isn't really here, or I'm floating somewhere above myself. Or something. I don't know. My brain feels kind of fuzzy, so I know I'm not making any sense. I've probably been drugged. God, that should be worrying, but for some reason I feel okay about it.

I can't see very well, either. I mean, I normally wear glasses, so of course I can't see very well. But it's pretty dark in here. Swinging my legs over the bed is harder than it probably should be. I feel like I've been in bed for years. Everything feels stiff when I get up and move around. God. How old am I? Jesus. I feel ancient.

I can make out a light switch near the door. I shuffle across the room, and after I hit the switch, I can better appreciate my surroundings. The room feels institutional. Like a hospital. Maybe I hit my head on patrol last night? Lost consciousness or something and I just don't remember it. It doesn't feel like there is a bandage of any kind on my head though.

Looking at myself, I notice that I'm wearing a pair of blue monogrammed pajamas. They are very similar to the ones I have at home.

There are a couple of bookshelves under the window. That's good. Although the titles are a little disconcerting. Well, no, the titles themselves aren't really all that upsetting. It's the fact that they are all so _me_. Things I'd likely pick out. _Bulfinch's Mythology, Once and Future King_, Campbell, stuff like that. There's also a whole row of ornithological journals. I've written articles for some of them here and there. On the shelf below the books, there's a stack of vinyl records. Someone who knows me very well went through a lot of trouble to put these here.

I didn't just bump my head, did I?

Near the window, there is a rocking chair next to a table. There's a half-empty mug of cold coffee on the windowsill. I wonder who left it here. I pick up the mug and look into it, and the liquid is sort of hypnotizing as it swirls around and around and—

The door to the room opens slowly. I'm not sure if the caution is just for my benefit. A woman with burgundy hair set into a bun peeks into the room. She seems older, but there is also a somewhat youthful quality about her. I have the impression her hair would look stunning if she let it down.

"Look who's awake," she says softly, as if she feels the need to walk on eggshells. I'm not sure why, but I have a strong urge to apologize.

She comes into the room more fully, and gestures for me to sit on the bed. I comply. She sits next to me, and looks at her clipboard.

"Do you know my name?"

"I'm sorry. I don't."

"That's all right. I wasn't sure if you remembered. I'm Dr. Jay." Remembered?

"How are you feeling?" I don't know what I was expecting, but there is no warmth in her words. This is purely clinical.

"I'm a little achy. But other than that, I'm mostly just. Uh, confused?" I say. I'm not looking at her, I'm studying my fingernails instead and I wonder when they last trimmed.

Her forehead crinkles a bit. She glances at her clipboard, and then up at me. I don't know what she expects to see. She proceeds to ask me a battery of questions: Name, date of birth, current year, education, current occupation.

For the last question, I answer 'Ornithologist.' While it isn't exactly the truth, it's also not a lie. Not really.

"And Nite Owl?"

Shit.

"What?" I say. My voice cracked a little, didn't it. Oh, shit.

"You aren't a superhero named Nite Owl?"

"What? God, no. That's ridiculous." Ridiculous is the word 'superhero.' So, that's what this is, then. Abducted and possibly drugged. Great. I hope to god that Rorschach is out there, plotting a rescue. He just has to be.

I think this doctor can read minds. "And your partner?"

"My what?"

"Partner. You are a superhero, and you have a partner called The Rorschach Test, correct?"

"The Ro—" I know it's rude to laugh, but goddamn. Really?

"Is this a joke? You're shitting me, right?"

I wasn't expecting this reaction. A long exhale, the way her shoulders relax a bit. It's surprising. I was sure she would take offense.

She looks me straight in the eye and says, "Welcome back."

.....

I'm sure the view outside my window is very beautiful. Don't get me wrong, the oak tree in the courtyard is majestic. I can easily imagine myself sitting on the bench under it, reading a book or writing down which birds stop by the birdbath (right now there are a pair of goldfinches -- a male and female.) I'm not really seeing any of it, though. I know I should be studying the perimeter fence and noting the layout of the building. I should be watching the guards, observing their patterns, finding weaknesses in the security. Plotting my escape. I _should_ be doing all those things, but I'm feeling too spacey to really focus on anything concrete.

Dr. Jay is over in the little kitchenette area preparing lunch. She asks me if I would like to sit in the rocking chair, but it feels more like a command than a suggestion. _The world's nicest jailor._

"Do you cook for all your patients?" I ask. I'm hoping a little false familiarity will provide at least a little bit of insight.

I watch her as she prepares my meal. The ease in which she moves around the kitchen suggests to me that she is very comfortable doing this. Very routine. I'm sure playing warden isn't exactly how she envisioned her career when she was still in medical school.

"I'm your personal physician," She says. She sounds very tired.

"Chef, too huh?" I say.

"Nutritionist. I have a few specialties. Here." She drops a tuna sandwich in front of me. I inspect it carefully, but I don't really know what I'm looking for. I find tomatoes and lettuce. A pickle spear on the side.

A sudden spike of panic hits and I ask, "You aren't going to eat?"

"Not my lunch break," she says, and I find that suspicious.

I think about some of those wild theories of Rorschach's; one of his favorites being about mind control substances in the tap water as a means of manipulating the populace. I've always dismissed those kinds of things as simple paranoia.

Shit.

"You know, I didn't realize how hungry I was," she says, suddenly. "It isn't my lunch break yet, but that sandwich does look wonderful." She smiles and leans in conspiratorially. "You won't tell anyone, will you?"

"What?"

She disappears behind the counter and returns with a glass of tap water and a half-sandwich. I notice the plate lacks a pickle spear of its own. She then proceeds to make a show of eating and drinking. Okay. I get it. This is all about gaining trust.

After I finish my sandwich, (pickle left uneaten) she invites me for a walk outside to see the courtyard and garden. But I might feel better if I get cleaned up first. She shows me the way to the facilities. I have to buzz the door to my room, and a guard will escort me. (And yet she insists this isn't a prison.) The bathroom area isn't quite what I expected. It is more like a locker room at a gym. There is a bank of showerheads along a wall, each separated by a short L-shaped tiled partition. A row of urinals. Three stalls. The doc passes a piece a paper through the little window to the shower room guard. Everything is logged and rationed, apparently. I am to receive per doctor's orders: one towel, one small bar of soap, one tiny bottle of shampoo, and one disposable razor. She tells me she will meet me back in my room in fifteen minutes, and to try not to miss her.

.....

_Mom is on the phone in the kitchen. I can't hear what she is saying, but she is sobbing and her words sound panicky. My dad is standing over me, yelling. _

"_What the hell is wrong with you?" He screams. I don't know why he is so upset. It was only _

_a test run. I am on the grass, it's wet, I'm wet, and cold. Mom comes and says, "They're on their way." I don't know who 'they' are, but I don't think that can be good. Mom just says, "Why?" The only thing I can think to say is, "I don't think my arm is on right."_

_Nite Owl and Rorschach are beating the shit out of each other. I'm not sure how I can be here watching it. They are brutal to each other, the punches and the way they both are screaming at each other like feral animals. I yell, "Stop! Just stop!"_

_When he speaks, Nite Owl's voice frightens me. It is mine, it's my voice, but it is nothing like me. It's pure poison._

"_You don't belong here," he snarls as he disappears down the alley._

_When I find my voice, is too late. "Where DO I belong?" _

"_Hope you are happy," Rorschach says. He is angry and I hope I am strong enough. _

"_Why the hell are we fighting?"_

"_WE, Daniel? 'We' are doing no such thing. Do not presume to include yourself in this. YOU are not the one doing the fighting."_

_But I am! I am thrashing and kicking violently. They can't keep me here! I'll get out again, I swear to god I will. I don't care what they know. They can't just ABDUCT people. Dr. White straps me to the table. Dr. Jay is saying, "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry," over and over. She jabs the needle in my arm, and everything goes black._

_My mother breaks out into sobs when I tell her how much I miss her since she died._

_Hollis Mason is a retired crime fighter. He was a cop and a costumed adventurer, and he has been my hero since I was a small boy. It was the best day of my live when he agreed to hand me his mantle as Nite Owl. _

_He slaps me on the shoulder and hands me a beer. "I approve of you, son," he says with a wide smile. From this day on, I think of him like a father._

_Rorschach and I are crouched on a rooftop. I am dressed as Nite Owl, and we are on an important case. A small child has been abducted, and we are planning our strategy. He tells me there is no more noble cause, doing what we do, and I agree. They say bravery and chivalry are dead, but I plan to prove otherwise._

_Dr. Jay hand me a small plastic cup filled with pills of various shapes and colors. I feel nervous, and she knows me, knows just how terrified I feel. She says it might be confusing at first, it might not all come at once, but it will work this time. She promises. God, I hope so. I really do._

The water shuts off abruptly, and I have to wipe the soap from my eyes to see. Dr. Jay is standing over me, and I am suddenly very aware of my nudity. I feel as if the floor has fallen out from under me, and I am falling and falling. The only thing I can grab hold of is: "But this is the men's room."

.....

During college, if you had known me, you never would have guessed there was anything odd about me. I studied hard, attended all my classes, and juggled the social scene adequately enough as to not become a complete recluse. Okay, so I wasn't exactly a party animal, but I did all right. In other words, I was a fairly typical student. At first, it wasn't anything people around me noticed or suspected. I hadn't even noticed. It had started innocuously enough; I began to believe my parents had died. That I was putting myself through school on the large inheritance I had been awarded, despite my father not approving of my 'slightly eccentric' interests. (His words. Not mine.) He had always claimed that my 'obsessions' with mythology and ornithology and aviation were fine to study as hobbies, but in his view, money was the way to go. I would want a family one day, he had argued. I would want to support them the best I could, as he had done with us. And maybe I should show a little respect for the hardships our family had to endure to get to where we are today. I am not blind to history. I understand exactly how fortunate I am, how fortunate we are. Even still, my father was grooming me to follow him into the world of finance, and well, I would be lying if I claimed the idea didn't bore me to tears. Maybe it is just possible I wanted my father, the man who would plan my future for me, out of my life. It would be easier that way, wouldn't it? To live life on my own terms? Or, maybe on some level I liked the attention having supposed dead parents afforded me. You know, people you don't really know approaching you and offering their condolences. (Doc says I shouldn't be blaming myself for being sick, but I don't know. It just seems so…convenient, you know?)

Things didn't really start to turn until I went home. My parents' New Jersey home became a New York City brownstone. The basement became a sort of secret lair, a place where I could build all my neat gadgets. I have always had an aptitude for engineering, and maybe in retrospect it's a little embarrassing I

didn't have the '_right frame of mind' _to put this to better use. Anyway, as I said, I began spending a lot of my time downstairs.

It must have worried my mother sick. I was living in her home under the delusion she had died. God, that's horrible, isn't it? I owe her... I owe them both so much. (And Doc says I can see them when I'm ready. I told her I am ready, but they don't have to rush. If they didn't want to.)

Things came to a head when I was ready to test my homemade airship. Yeah. I'm sure you can imagine. Luckily, the only thing broken was an arm. Mom was hysterical, of course, but you know what I remember the most from that day? I remember feeling confused why they were there at all. I didn't even register that my arm had been broken. It just 'wasn't on right.' I don't even know what that means.

This was the first time I went to the hospital. My doctor wasn't Dr. Jay then; she eventually took over for Dr. White after he retired. (His first name was Robert, and I found this a little more amusing than was probably appropriate.)

I didn't always exist in the fantasy, though. I would come out sometimes like waking from a dream. (This is what happened the first time. I woke up; they kept me under watch for a while, but eventually sent me back home.) Other times, waking up ended, uh, badly. I would wake disoriented and unable to distinguish reality from fantasy. I'm ashamed to admit that I'd sometimes react violently. And this is the reason the hospital became my new home.

My fantasy world eventually became a pretty complex place. I imagined writing letters (I may have actually written them, I'll have to remember to ask) to a man Doc describes as 'The Father Who Approves.' He may have been based on someone I knew, or I may have made him up whole cloth. I don't really know yet.

I also imagined I was a member of a larger group, a sort of 'Knights of the Roundtable.' And maybe it was a bit of self-sabotage, but this didn't really work out so well.

I had a partner. He was called 'Rorschach.'

Doc says the other doctors have theories on this in the myriads.

"And your theory?"

"My theory isn't nearly as complex as those espoused by some of my colleagues. You're a smart, educated man. Somewhere, you knew you were not well, and the name was a cry for help."

She passes me a mug of hot tea wearing a self-depreciating smile. I inhale deeply, and the steam feels wonderful when I breathe it in.

"Is the offer to visit the garden still available? I think I'd like that."

.....

There's a kind of comfort in the predictability of a daily routine, don't you think? Knowing what to expect everyday? No surprises, just live your life on a clock and everything will fit where it is supposed to. This isn't to say I couldn't handle a curveball right now, I mean, I'm pretty sure I could, I'm just finding my structured existence to be very helpful.

All right so, maybe that's a little bit boring, but for me, for right now, boring is just fine. A little stability never hurt. And for the first time, maybe ever, I feel really here. Really…grounded, you know? Maybe this is just something other people take for granted, but I just feel like I'm going to be okay.

The Doc and I are walking through the herb garden, and as you probably guessed, this is kind of part of the morning routine. I pick a handful of rosemary as we pass the potted plant. The smell is wonderful. I pass a sprig to my mother, notice the way she smiles when she picks off each spiky leaf before she pops them in her mouth. She is today's curveball, but it's going pretty well. After an awkward start, anyway. I felt like a broken record for the first, oh, twenty minutes or so. _I'm okay, Ma. Really. I'm fine. _

She came around though when we went outside, and I showed her the birdfeeder and house I installed on one of the oak's larger limbs. The goldfinches are back, and while I'm not superstitious, I read

somewhere once that goldfinches are considered good luck. I'll take whatever luck I can get.

She is telling the Doc about the growing she had done during the war. Besides rosemary, she also grew parsley, cukes, tomatoes. Other things, too I'm sure. I'm not really as engaged in the conversation as I should be. I've noticed movement in the bushes. It's just a fleeting moment, and then it's gone.

Probably rabbits or squirrels, or something. It's a little disturbing though, for reasons I can't really put my finger on. I make the suggestion to go inside. I want to show her I have been writing again, anyway.

Pretty soon even visits from my mother become pretty dependable, and there is talk of releasing me to her—to my parents' custody. God. Being in your twenties and in your parents' custody is a little embarrassing, but I understand the reasons. And the Doc says more than likely it will be temporary anyway. I'm doing really well, and that's very encouraging.

Tomorrow is my last day and I'm packed and ready to go. Mom and Dad will be here in the morning, but I'm finding I can't sleep. How odd it is, though. That other life. That fantasy. It feels so far away now. This is a good thing. A letting go. Letting go of not only that, but of this as well. The structure. I don't need it anymore. I don't.

.....

"Dr. Jay," I say, fumbling. I know I'm no good at this. "It's been…I mean, I, uh." I run my fingers through my hair, maybe as a stall tactic, but she's quick to rescue me.

"Mr. Dreiberg," she says warmly.

I offer a grateful smile. She hands me a business card with her name and office number. There is a

handwritten number on the back. "Day or night," she says.

I'm not really sure what is appropriate now, so I shake her hand. She pulls my parents off to the side to speak with them. I take that as a cue to make myself scarce. I set to busy myself with hauling my belongings into the car.

I'm sitting at a bar in town scowling into a mug of beer instead of unpacking because my folks are absolutely screaming at each other back at the house. I'm not entirely sure how it even started. Hell, the argument? It's not even about something I want. Or need. My mother wants to throw some kind of elaborate party. My father wants none of that. He wants to keep his sick son swept under the rug. I'm an embarrassment, apparently. I run my hands through my hair then press my palms into my eyes. Moving in with them was a bad idea. I was so goddamn optimistic this would work. My mother means well, I'm sure my father does too. I just. I don't know. I do know that this can't possible be helpful.

I settle the bill and head back before I have too much to drink. I'm not sure what kind of effect intoxication would have on me right now, and I'm not really interested in finding out. It isn't too far of a walk, so that's good at least. I have no other plans right now except crawl into bed and sleep this whole sorry mess off. Tell my mother in the morning a party isn't something I feel comfortable with. And maybe have the balls to stand up to my father for once in my life. I should probably also give the Doc a call in the morning. I need other options. Or maybe she can make the drive down and talk with them. God. What a mess.

When I get back to the house, they don't seem to be home. I hope they didn't go out looking for me.

I'm woken up by some sort of mechanical scrabbling sound at the window.

Before I have a chance to even get my legs from under the covers, the window explodes, sending shards of glass everywhere.

"Holy shit."

There is now a man in a trench and hat crouched on my windowsill.

"Hello, Daniel."

Oh, hell.

.....

"Apologies for the delay," he begins. "Overcoming my own disorientation was…problematic. I was successful in reclaiming some of your equipment, however." He produces a rectangular device from an inner pocket of his trench and hands it to me. I just stare at it dumbly. "Your strategy of gaining their confidence seems to have been an effective one. Trust you've had more access to the facility and that you were able to gain information?"

He waits a beat before he says my name. I feel faint. A soft buzzing sound starts in my ears, and it is getting louder. I need to sit down. Luckily, the bed is there to catch me.

He cants his head toward the window. "Coming?"

"No, man. No way."

This is not happening. I close my eyes for a moment, but it all slips away.

The door to my room creaks slowly open, and for a moment, I swear it's the Doc. But of course, it's my mother. "Everything okay in here?"

I try to answer in the affirmative, but only a choked sound comes. I cough to clear my throat but that only sends out a cascade of pain from behind my eyes. I close my eyes tight before opening them again, and strain to see. I can only make out an outline of a form framed in the doorway. I motion toward my forehead to indicate a headache. She nods and promises to be right back with an aspirin or something.

The door clicks shut behind her, and the intruder reappears, slinking out from somewhere behind the shadows.

"Need to get you out of here. Worse than I expected."

"No, nuh-uh. I just got home! I'm not going anywhere. My parents—"

"Home? Daniel. You think you're…hmm. Bad. Very bad."

Before I have a chance to respond, the door opens again, and my mother returns with two pills and a glass of water. I sit up, awkwardly, and dutifully take them. I can feel disapproving eyes boring through me from the darkness, but don't particularly care. I drift off to sleep and dream of being small, of being scooped up by the handful and carried before released to flight, in a flutter of feathers and a blur of brown and yellow.

.....

"Need you to wake up."

When I open my eyes, I notice I am no longer in my bedroom. Instead, I am sitting slumped in a leather seat. I still feel fuzzy, though, and find I am having difficulty translating my surroundings into anything that makes any sort of sense. There is a panel of controls in front of me. My 'rescuer' hovers over me, shoving a paper cup at my chest.

"I don't want coffee," I say. I close my eyes again and silently plea for sleep. I want nothing more than to wake up back in my own bed.

Even behind closed eyes, I can sense his face in front of mine. A smack from a gloved hand against my cheek leaves a slight sting, and it is such a physical, tactile thing that I am having trouble denying it. I touch the injured area, and as I move my own palm from my face, the pain dissipates.

The fog feels as if it is lifting, so that's good. Rorschach, because that's who he is, is speaking.

"Understand you are confused. It is difficult, overcoming what they have done. You have been drugged and manipulated and feed, lies all with the intention of stealing from you the very thing no one else has any right; your sense of self. This is why we must leave here, and return when we are better prepared. We must bring these…people to justice. Promise I do not intend you any ill will. Ask only your trust."

There is so much conviction in those words. I find it a very easy thing to be converted. I am, however, beginning to feel like a rag doll, being jerked bonelessly from one side to the other, being asked to accept diametrically opposed viewpoints. And right now, I stand facing the polar opposite of where I came in. I won't accept his trust. How can I possibly? But this. Right now, this feels as real to me as the hospital. I don't acknowledge the matter of trust. I instead give my attention over to the controls and dials in front of me, and amazingly, find it all so very intuitive. I know just what to do. Just where to go.

I can only laugh at the shear absurdity. The last time I tried this, my parents thought I was trying to kill myself. No broken limbs today.

"Next stop, New York City."

.....

It isn't a long flight from Jersey, but it's enough time to give each of us the opportunity to speak his mind. I flat out admit that I don't know which way is up. He admits initially having the same uncertainties; he had himself gone through a similar process. But now his convictions lead him on a straight path, and no outside force can take his identity from him, can compromise him. I can't help but to admire that confidence. I tell him I wish I were so sure. I know that even before, skepticism was sort of my baseline position, but still.

It isn't long before we have arrived at our destination. The ship docks almost automatically. Smooth like butter. We both walk out with heads held high and the sense of accomplishment pinned to our chests. I take the stairs from the basement up to door that leads into the kitchen two at a time. A pause at the threshold, because this is really it, isn't it? There's no going back from here.

The wood of the doorjamb is old and needs to be replaced. Or refinished. Or something, but it doesn't leave a splinter when I run my finger along the grain.

I open the door very slowly. Maybe for drama, or maybe because I'm not really sure what I'll find. I'm not entirely convinced of the reality of all this, I don't think the vague pull of skepticism at the back of my brain will ever really go away. But whatever the truth, you have to admit. This is way more exciting than living with my folks and working for my father. I open the door the whole way, and the first thing I notice is the colors. The warmth of the colors, the understated way the darker tones play off the walls and appliances. It's really comforting, actually.

You know when you first come back home from a long trip, or vacation or something? And everything feels familiar, because it's yours, but the time away gives you enough space to find it all a little alien? Does that make any sense? Maybe not, but that's all right.

Rorschach says my name, and you really can't miss the exasperation in his tone.

He has plopped himself down at the kitchen table. Pens and pencils, newspapers and lined loose leaf sheets are spread out like a collage, pulled out from who knows where. He looks at me, waits for an acknowledgement. The chair looks very inviting. After I fall into it, I pick up what appears to be a hastily sketched out schematic of the hospital's ground floor. What I guess are supposed to be words are scrawled in various places on the map, but I can't make head or tail of any of it. It looks like gibberish.

I suddenly feel very drained. Tired. I look at him as he frantically jots down notes and thoughts and whatever else. Something insidious scrabbles inside my brain. So obvious but. But. I have no idea who this person is. I don't know his name, or where he lives. I suddenly have the urge to be sick, and I think I may have made a terrible, terrible mistake.

"I uh. Can we maybe discuss storming the Bastille tomorrow? This is kind of all catching up with me at once, you know? I think I probably should turn in. Grab some sleep."

He stands and gives a quick nod. Goes to pick up the scattered leaves from the table.

"You can, uh. You know. If you want." I can feel my cheeks flush. God. How stupid is this.

"Appreciate the offer," he says in words much quieter than I would have expected.

I just nod before slipping upstairs. A warm bed and a deep deep sleep are calling my name.

.....


	2. Chapter 2

An apparition appears at my bedside sometime in the wee hours. I am only vaguely aware of something cold set to my forehead, and something wet set to my lips. The ghost is a woman I know I love. Her long hair brushes my cheek in a good night kiss, and the world dissolves back into sleep.

.....

_"What did you dream of?"_

_"What?" _

_"Tell me about your dreams. Last time you said you flew. Do you still fly?"_

.....

The first order of business today is a shower. Run the water a little too hot, and it's not long before the bathroom is a sauna. The shower feels like a luxury, though. It is a cleansing; a much needed and well deserved one. So, I stand, and I imagine my problems spiraling down the drain, but the water changes from clear to black and white and I can't turn the faucet off fast enough.

_It's not real it's not real it's not real. It's not—_

Then there is a pounding on the door, and I had forgotten I had a houseguest.

"Just a second!" I scramble to pull my shorts up. I'm sure I look ridiculous as the door creaks open, but I'm really thinking more about all that cold air rushing in and stealing the warm fog.

"Is there a problem?"

"No. No problem," I say, hoping I've managed to keep the edge of panic from my voice. I attend to the business of taming my hair, but it's not really working. "Just give me sec, okay? Be right out."

.....

I grumble out a "Good morning," before I actually enter the kitchen. The sound of my voice somehow dropped the temperature in the kitchen by about ten degrees, and I see Rorschach, his back to me, freeze solid. He turns to me, and in a single fluid motion, tucks his journal into his jacket. On the table, I notice my wallet is laid out like a pinned butterfly. I pick the wallet up and begin rifling through it. There doesn't appear to be anything missing. He wouldn't flat out take money from me. I know this about him. Or remember, or something. He takes things, small inconsequential things. He lives as a scavenger scraping by, and I know this… but he doesn't _steal._ There's too much pride for that, too much self-determination, and then I remember the journal.

_"What's in there. What did you—?"_

There are limbs, suddenly, arms and legs twisted and somebody lets out a sharp yelp, and it could be me…I'm not sure, but now there are dodges and weaves and I connect an elbow to his gut and… He wheezes a bit. Somehow, I think this shouldn't have been possible, but it was, it really happened, and I am able to reach into his coat and pull out his journal. Open it up and a small white card flutters to the ground like a leaf. I pick it up. A cheerful cartoon blue jay is depicted on one side. Non-sense scribbles and lines on the back.

"You are misinterpreting what has been happening here. You are confused. Wanted to keep this from you, tried—"

I can't look at him. I turn around, and I can feel…something, frustration or anger or pain or something welling up, and I know a blue jay is somehow very important.

.....

We both dive to the floor in a battle to be the first to scoop up the fallen business card, and it may as well be pushing and kicking and shoving, but of course nothing so dramatic as that. He comes out the victor, but there is no outward display of triumph, no gloating or bragging. He only studies it, turning it over and over. For some reason I have the visual image of a stage magician vanishing the card with simple sleight of hand.

"Why do you want that? What do you care?"

"You fail to consider my investment in this situation. Have often wondered what it would mean if you had access to this. If I then cease to exist."

What the hell kind of thinking is that?

"I'm sure that's not true," I say.

"Are you? Are you sure? Not sure of very of much these days."

"How the hell can I be? I just—"

"Now you understand my position."

"Okay. Now that's bullshit. Remember on the way back here? You gave me this whole speech about how no one can steal your sense of self and how you had all this conviction? Now you have doubts? So, what. You just made all that up?"

"Doubt. Yes. Not…not proud to admit that." He looks first at his feet, stares at them for a long moment before tilting his head up at me. He continues. "You wonder if I only exist in your mind. I wonder if the reverse is true."

"There's a way to find out."

"No." He growls out my name, and it's a warning, something feral and dangerous, and all I want is to _know_. I reach out and he pulls away, but it must not have been too spirited a withdrawal because I am easily able to pluck the card from his fingers. It's a key, somehow. A code or… The scribbles and lines must be words. Numbers, too. Then, the non-sense mess moves and shifts on the card. Coalesces into something readable. Words. An address. A phone number. And then I remember.

.....

I bolt for the living room; I have every intention of being the first to reach the telephone but he is chasing after me fast, he might be angry, or he may simply be determined to best me, but either way he is scary as hell as he runs after me, more like an underwater predator than anything else, sleek and streamlined and very very vicious. We both reach for my desk simultaneously. He is groping over me, pulling at my clothes and connecting elbows to ribs and I scoop up the telephone, index finger slotted in the number two finger hole, and he snatches it away before I have the chance to dial. We struggle for control. This time there is pushing and shoving.

"Why are you fighting?"

"Why are you?"

Neither of us succeeds, though. Neither have control here, so neither win. The telephone spills out from our hands and tumbles down to the ground, but it feels like forever before it gets there. As it makes contact with the floor, a bell clangs from somewhere inside. The words _time's up_! spring to mind from someplace. For reasons I can't quite explain, I find the constant monotonous drone of the dial tone disconcerting.

Rorschach picks up the fallen device, gently places the receiver back on the cradle, and just as the receiver makes contact, the phone rings.

I may or not have jumped.

"Jesus."

He makes a sound that could be a growl, or it could be a laugh.

He hands me the phone. I put it to my ear. I say nothing. Simply listen.

"Hello? Anyone there?" A man says. There's something familiar about the man's voice. Paternal.

"…Dad?"

The voice on the other end laughs, though it's a nervous laughter. "Perhaps in the spiritual sense, kid. Saw your airship overhead last night. I was just calling to check up on you, is all. Make sure you're all right."

"Oh," I say. "Uh. Yeah. I'm okay, I guess…"

"Glad to hear it. Say, Laurie didn't make it out with you, did she?"

.....

"Laurie?" I say, confused. Rorschach jerks his head at me. I shrug. _I don't know_.

"…Laurie. Sally's girl," the man on the phone says. "You sure you're feeling all right, kid?"

"Oh, yeah. Yeah. No, I didn't realize…"

"I told her mother you're good people, Danny."

I close my eyes tightly. "We were planning on going back anyway?" I clear my throat. "I mean, you can tell her mother we'll do all we can."

A pause and then, "You boys watch yourselves."

"Yes, sir."

.....

"Guard here," Rorschach says with a stab of his finger on his hand drawn schematic. "And here."

I place my hand on the back of his leather seat—the co-pilot's chair—and lean over his shoulder to see where he is indicating. He elbows my bare abdomen for my effort.

"Hey!"

"Finish getting dressed," he says.

"Fine," I grumble, as I reach for the top part of my outfit, sitting on the pilot's chair. It's silly, I know. I probably don't _need _my costume, but it feels important, somehow. Like a reclaiming. After dressing, I set my glasses on the control panel. They stare back at me. I ignore them and instead set my attention to the business of flying. The orange lights from the city below look like points of starlight, and I find myself thinking about warm summer nights lying on my back in soft damp grass, looking through the pair of binoculars I would often 'borrow' from my father.

"Do you worry," I hear myself saying.

He looks up and at me. Says nothing.

"About what we'll find, I mean."

"Concerned errand may be a trap," he says, slowly. He picks up the page he was studying, folds it before stuffing it into a coat pocket. "A Possibility."

"Yeah, I guess. I mean, we don't even know _why_," I say. The density of the city lights are starting to thin out. We are moving away from the center of the galaxy, out toward the unknown universe. "They know all about," I gesture at myself, my surroundings. "You know." I adjust a dial here, punch in coordinate there; make a slight course correction. Outside, the city lights have completely vanished. There is only a smattering of lights now. A grid of suburban street lights, an outline of farmland. "This could be exactly what they expect of us."

"Won't give them the satisfaction of the expected," he says, as he points out the window. "There. Eleven o'clock. Three miles?"

I look at the instrumentation. "More like five, but yeah. We're here."

.....

Just at the horizon, wispy clouds catch a riot of pink and orange against a powder blue canvas. The sun is rising. "I wish I'd done a better job of surveillance," I mumble, as I look at what I think may have been my window from when I was detained here. We are currently crouched behind a row of tightly packed juniper bushes, along the perimeter of the compound. There are two guards. One stationed at the main entrance, and the other pacing the perimeter. We have to wait for the one walking along the bushes to pass before we can bolt for the front door. We probably could take this one out, but we don't want to tip off the other guard unnecessarily. We need him. "Quiet," Rorschach says as he jabs an elbow at me.

"Again with the ribs," I say.

He snaps his forefinger against his thumb, like a powerful jaw slamming shut. _Quiet,_ it means.

I roll my eyes at him, but it's a wasted gesture behind the goggles. I hear them before I see them, voices coming up along the garden path. Here they come. Three figures. One male, two females. The two women seem engaged in conversation. The shorter one is wearing blue slacks and blue and black striped knit top. The other one is closer in size to the male, both of similar coloring. They look a matched set. He seems distracted. Next to me, Rorschach pulls out his journal from an inside pocket, begins scratching something into it with his stub of a pencil. The male of the trio whips his head around. Looks right where we are. Shit. I think we're busted. I hold my breath. He leans in to whisper in the ear of the smaller woman. She nods, and all three turn and make their way toward the building.

A drab olive colored goldfinch flits from birdfeeder to oak branch. The coloring suggests either an immature male or, more likely, a female.

The guard walking the perimeter passes past our position, and we make a break for it.

.....

It's only about five hundred feet from the juniper-lined perimeter to the main door, so the guard there can see us well enough, but he doesn't seem alarmed or anything by the sight of two charging costumed vigilantes. I'm sure if I saw something like that rushing right for me, I'd probably shit my pants. Although, I know I can handle myself pretty well. Maybe that's what this guard is thinking, too. That he can take us on, no problem. Well, we'll give him a run for his money, at any rate.

He still hasn't moved by the time we meet up with him at the door. I'd expected resistance. A fight at the very least. Time to try a different approach.

"Open the door," I demand. He does so, without question. I shoot my partner a quizzical look. He very vaguely shakes his head.

We slip inside the building, and the guard follows us in. Locks the door behind him. While he has his back turned, we run. We pound up the three flights of stairs to the floor where most of the patients are roomed. We start systematically checking each room; he takes the even numbered ones, while I take the odds. Surprisingly, many of them are empty.

"In here," he calls.

When I follow him into room 350, I see her. Standing there by the window and looking out at the oak tree. Before I have the chance to say something cheesy, like "_We're here to rescue you!" _she turns to me. Says, "You like birds. What are these ones called?"

I look. They're our pair of resident goldfinches. I tell her so.

"They're nice," she says, distantly. "Pretty."

"They're always in pairs," I hear myself saying. Why am I telling her this? "While one feeds, the other keeps lookout for danger. They watch each other."

"Are you danger?" she asks, teasingly.

"Me? Oh, no. No. Actually, I'm here to—"

"You're not here to rescue me," she says with a bored detachment. "Dan, you're sweet. Maybe with a bit of a hero-complex, but you're sweet."

"What do you mean by 'hero-complex,'" I ask. I sound more defensive than I mean. "And what happened to R—"

She smiles, more with her eyes than her lips, and lifts my goggles off my face. She then pecks a chaste kiss on my cheek.

"What was that for?"

"It's for luck," she says, grinning.

"Um. Okay," I say, feeling somewhat foolish. "Thanks, I guess. We're going to need all the luck we can get. Come on. Let's get you out of here."

"I'm not going anywhere with you," she says, in a tone that suggests disbelief and maybe a little pity. I chuckle. Yeah, this was me not so long ago, huh.

"Look," I say. My heart is pounding and I feel out of breath. "I was the same way. I had trouble, uh, accepting it, too, at first. You start off confused, but then something clicks and it all fits in place." Then the image of the doorjamb's wood grain and warm earth tones of my kitchen pop into my mind. "Especially once you get out of here. I think once the drugs got out of my system…"

"Oh, Dan," comes a voice from the doorway, short and clipped, like someone scolding the cat for clawing up the couch again. It's the woman in blue from outside. No. I know her. She's…My mother. No. Oh, god. The Doc.

"Dr. Jay," I say. Now I feel like the scolded cat. She's going to try to trick me somehow. Trap me into her way again, convince me I belong here. It's kind of sick, actually. This whole operation. Where do these people get off? Who do they think they are? Taking people? Drugging them? To what end.

"You. You keep away from me," I say as I move toward Laurie to take her wrist. She's quick and pulls away, jerks her hand back as if it had just been burned. "I'm going to take Laurie back home to her mother…"

As I'm speaking, she puts both hands on her head. "My mother, now. Oh god."

"What?" "I was always a little flattered that you included me, but now you've involved my mother?" she spat.

"Okay, Dan," Dr. Jay says, palms up at me, placating. "You need to calm down."

"I'm calm. Who says I'm not calm?"

"If you want we can go to my office? I'll make you some of that tea."

"So you can drug and brainwash me, right? Yeah. I don't think so."

Just then, Rorschach appears behind the doctor. I look up at him, and the doctor's body language stiffens into something a little more hostile.

"There's something you need to see," she says, eyes narrow.

She's trying to intimidate me. Distract me from this right now, divert my attention elsewhere. It's not going to work.

"No." I grab Laurie by the wrist and push my way past the doctor. She's thrashing and kicking and punching and yelling, and I realize this is way _way_ out there for me, but I'm fucking desperate. I need to get her out of here quickly and safely. I made a promise. The doc turns and runs for the door. No. She stops at the wall next the door. Pulls a red handled lever. An ear splitting peal calls out from seemingly everywhere, and all I want to do is get away from that god-awful sound.

Then, as if all at once, security men surround me. At least four men are holding me in place, and I am squirming and trying everything I can think of to break away, but it isn't doing any good. The doc comes over with a syringe. "I'm so sorry," she says before the world goes black.

.....

_The world seems hazy and out of focus. I'm probably dreaming. I can't tell anymore. That probably should be worrying, but god, I'm actually feeling okay about it. I am lying in my own bed. Well, my own bed at my parents house. My mother is dabbing a cold washcloth to my forehead, and encouraging me to finish my water. I'm so very hot. _

_"What do you dream of?" she asks me. "Last time," she starts, as an encouragement. "You said you flew. Do you still fly?" _

_"Sometimes I fly. But more like I'm a pilot than a bird. But somehow I'm a bird too. It makes sense, in context, I guess." She laughs. "You always wanted to fly. Do you remember the first time you saw one of those old World War II dog-fighters?"_

_"Yeah," I say. "Yeah, I do…" _

_"I'm sorry you father doesn't understand…" _

_"I know," I say quickly._

_"I have something for you," she says. She gets up and moves to the windowsill. When she returns, she hands me a round box. _

_"What is it?" _

_"Open it, and see."_

_Inside the box is a brightly colored painting on a flat circle. _

_"It's Pennsylvania Dutch. The birds mean 'good luck.' We can always use whatever luck we can get."_

.....

I feel so beat up and just plain exhausted when I wake up. Rorschach is still here, which is odd. He is slumped in my rocking chair next to the window, fast asleep. Doc comes in the room, now and nudges him awake. "Come on," she whispers. "Let's get you back into your own room."

"Haven't finished my coffee yet," he mumbles.

She hauls him to his feet and leads him out of the room. "Be right back," she whispers to me.

I nod. I get up and look out the window. There aren't any birds out there this morning. I feel a deep sense of loss at this for some reason. I'm not sure why. She comes back in with one of those familiar tiny plastic cups filled with several different pills. All of different shapes and different colors. She sets the cup on the counter before sitting down in the rocking chair.

"Ha. You only kicked him out so you could have it."

"Guilty as charged," she says quietly. "So, what do you think happened?" she asks.

"I." I look at the floor. "I don't really know."

"It's okay. I'm not blaming you. You know that."

"Yeah."

"I called your parents."

"Oh, god."

"They agreed."

"Really?" I say, truly, genuinely shocked.

"Mm-hmm." I take a deep breath. "Okay."

"There's no need to be nervous. We'll be able to handle it. Don't worry about it.."

"Okay."

She gets up to retrieve the tiny cup, brings it to me. I look at her with butterflies in my stomach, but she just nods. _Go ahead_, it means.

.....

.

.

.

Have you ever woken up somewhere, without knowing just how you got there?


End file.
